


My New Prescription

by lesbat (songbirdwrites)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boarding School, F/F, Highschool AU, M/M, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 13:08:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6567640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songbirdwrites/pseuds/lesbat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes keeps skipping school in favour of feeding his addiction.<br/>John Watson is trying to forget his past and become a better person.<br/>When fate forces them together, it'll either be magnificent or catastrophic. Or maybe both.</p><p>(I totally forgot this even exsisted, but I may continue with it. Consider it on hiatus until further notice)</p>
            </blockquote>





	My New Prescription

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or the majority of these characters.

Mycroft Holmes always knew where to find his little brother. It was like a superpower. He was a human bloodhound, capable of sniffing out Sherlock Holmes like he was a steak on a hot summers day. Whether the younger boy was hiding out in some dingy drug den or simply at the supermarket buying borax for an experiment, Mycroft could tell when he was in trouble. And today, he was most definitely in trouble.

Mycroft had gotten that feeling. It was like a squeezing in the back of his head, accompanied by a voice whispering, "Sherlock.". He pressed his eyes closed trying to ignore it. He was busy, he needed to focus on the numerous tasks at hand. "Sherlock," It whispered louder. He was only imagining things, he assured himself. "Sherlock is dying." 

He got the same feeling often, ever since the first time. Finding Sherlock alone, in that dingy abandoned house, lying by himself, half-dead, was a memory that would haunt his nightmares for years to come. He liked to pretend that sometimes it wasn't right, that it was just his mind playing tricks on him, but it was always right.

He gave in to his worries and dialed the number to his old secondary school. He loathed the place. It had been a time of the illogical, what with changing brain chemistry and all. Nevertheless, he didn't want to relive such memories.

The receptionist picked up. She was old. She'd been there since Mycroft's time and before. She was merely one of the many people that Mycroft had charmed in his pursuit of power, and she was often a little too friendly for his taste.

"Hello, Schmidt Secondary School. How can I help you?"

"Ah, hello Mrs. Sherry, I have a favour to ask of you."

Calling her by name was a gamble. He could have easily faked an accent, pretended he didn't know anything about her and avoided unnecessary babbling, but then she might not be so cooperative with information.

"Oh, Mycroft! Dear, it's been so long. How's work treating you?"

Mycroft had started in an entry level position for the British government fresh out of college and worked his way up rather quickly. He knew that Mrs. Sherry didn't know any of that though, she was only asking to be polite.

"Fine, Mrs. Sherry, just fine, but-"

"Oh, and you have your own flat! That must be quite a bit different."

This was getting tedious. He had lived by himself for the better part of seven years. He could hardly remember what living with his parents was like, let alone compare the two.

"Yes, Mrs. Sherry, but-

"Do you have a flat share? Surely you couldn't afford that all on your own."

"Actually I can, and I really do need to know about Sherlock-"

"Oh! And-"

"Mrs.. Sherry-"

"Your gra-"

" **Mrs. Sherry** "

The line went silent. Mycroft should have felt bad, but, naturally, he didn't.

"Has my brother been seen at the school today?"

There was a pause, then a soft ruffling of papers as Mrs. Sherry checked the morning attendance. 

"No," she said. "He hasn't been in a few days, actually. Is- is everything all right?" She asked tentatively, afraid of another outburst.

Mycroft hung up without another word. There were plenty of reasons for Sherlock to skip school, and he'd done so for almost all of them. There really was no reason to worry, but Mycroft couldn't get the nagging in his head to stop.

He dialed his parent's number for the first time in weeks. 

"Mycroft!"

"Mother, save me the pointless small talk. I just need to know about Sherlock."

"Oh, Myc, I haven't heard from you in so long and-" 

"Mother, this is of supreme importance, don't bore me with your feeble attempt at parenting."

"I don't like your tone, Mister. You know I think-"

"Where is Sherlock?"

"What?"

"Sherlock. Where is he?"

"He's at school of course. Where else would he be?"

Mycroft groaned. How could they all be so stupid? 

"Was he home last night?"

"No dear, he was out with friends. Why?"

Mycroft clicked end once again. Of course he wasn't. Sherlock Holmes didn't have friends.

He let his finger hover over the 1 on his mobile phone. He had his brother's number on speed dial. Instead, he hit the 2, because Sherlock wouldn't pick up. Sherlock never picked up.

\---

Lights were flowing and singing in Sherlock's ears. He could smell the sounds of the city outside. The colours were so loud that they were blinding him, and he had maggots crawling under his skin. 

He was vaguely aware of a voice talking to him. His brother's, he believed, but is was so far off that he doubted Mycroft would notice if he didn't respond. There were alarms too, or maybe sirens.

"Did y... list... lock"

He was vaguely aware of rubbing his arms, trying to will the maggots away. They were starting to annoy him. He was saving scratching open his skin as a last resort.

In the forefront of his mind was a problem he was trying to solve. It involved a murder. A man who appeared to fly and crash-land into a building. His brain was working a mile a minute to figure it out. Everything in the outside world felt sluggish.

"Did you... list... Sherlock."

Facts, dates, information whizzed through his vision. Comprehension was beginning to dawn on him.

In the world outside of his mind, he was still trying to remove the maggots, but something, or rather someone, was stopping him from ripping oven his flesh. 

"Did you make a list, Sherlock?"

A list. That rang a bell. Sherlock habitually pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket and handed it to his brother, never stopping his train of thought for a moment.

His brother's voice sighed, heavy with disappointment, but he didn't hear it.

"Oh, Sherlock."

\---

Sherlock woke up in his bed at his parent's house. Mycroft was hovering near the door, glancing down at his phone. Sherlock let out a small groan, rubbing his throbbing temples.

"Ah, finally awake brother dear."

Sherlock didn't say a word. He didn't need to ask questions. One look at his brother and he could read the whole of last night's events.

"Mummy and Daddy are very cross."

"Piss off."

Mummy and daddy weren't cross, they were stupid. Everytime Sherlock went through any kind of self-inflicted pain, they were all worried and fussy because "their poor baby!" had been hurt. They weren't smart enough to be cross.

"We've had a discussion, Sherlock." 

"Oh, fantastic."

"I have a connection-"

"To everyone in Europe. Please, Mycroft, for once in your life could not take an opportunity to boast about your job?"

" **Sherlock Holmes.** "

Sherlock fell quiet with an angry exhale of breath. Mycroft really thought he was something, just because of he was graduated and got to work for the government. How boring.

"We, that is to say, mother, father, and I, have decided that it is in your best interest to attend St. Matthew's Academy."

"Sounds dull. Where is it?"

"It's a special school, for troubled youth, Sherlock. I really think that it could help you sort out some of your... Problems."

"Where. Is. It?"

"It's out near Saffshire."

"How am I supposed to get there everyday? The tube doesn't go that far. Honestly Mycroft, I think you're slipping."

"You would be the one that's slipping little brother. It's a boarding school."

"A boarding school?"

\-----

St. Matthew's was big, and it was brooding. The school was out in the middle of the English countryside, surrounded by hundreds of acres of trees and bush. The main office building was made of heavy stone and stretched four stories high. The teacher's slept up there. There was only one dirt road leading up to the grimy building. Essentially, there was no escape. Sherlock had heard a story from some acquaintances that one time a group of girl's learned to kill squirrels by throwing rocks at them, and attempted to run away and survive in the forest, but were back within the hour. They said that none of them would talk about what had happened. He doubted the story's legitimacy, but found the information useful none-the-less.

He had been driven to St. Matthew's that morning with his parents. They were horrible and embarrassing, but they had to fill out paperwork. Sherlock hated paperwork of any kind. In part because it was tedious, but mostly because he hated seeing "William" written in the name line on his documents. William was a name he never identified with.

After paperwork, Sherlock's orientation was quick. He was shown around by an over friendly teacher for a bit, she had just been through a divorce, he noted, and potentially had a problem with personal hygiene. First, they went to the cafeteria, which was practically empty at this hour, then the gym and football fields, in which an informal game of scrimmage was taking place, the art and science wings, where clubs were currently being held, and finally, his dorm.

They didn't have names or anything fancy, Sherlock's was called dorm B. There was also an A, a C, and a D, he was told, but they weren't visible from dorm B, or much else of the grounds. In fact, nothing was really visible from anything else. All of the buildings resided in tightly packed trees, only accessible by forest pathways. The main one's were marked, but Sherlock saw signs of secret shortcuts winding off of the main trails. 

The teacher showed Sherlock the kitchen and the bathrooms in dorm B, then left him to slowly walk down the second floor hall, taking in every aspect for later evaluation. 

The dirty carpeted floor, the peeling floral wallpaper, the windows looking out into dense trees. It reminded him of a stereotypical summer camp. There were a couple potted plants up against the walls, in which some of the boy's would store things, it appeared.

He found the door that he had been instructed to find, number 221. This was going to be his room for the next year, his mother said. He figured he could find a way out of this nightmare before six months.

He knocked on the door, waited a moment, and then pushed it open. None of the student's rooms here locked. For safety reason's, apparently. That made things easier for him.

The room was disappointing to say the least. It was small, only containing a bunk bed, two desks pressed side-by-side, a closet, and the absolute minimum amount of empty floor space. It's inhabitant however, did not disappoint.

The boy was shorter than Sherlock, but more muscular, with wide shoulders and military-ish blonde hair. He didn't seem the sort that would bother Sherlock too much, or try to stop him from doing anything eccentric.

"Hi," the boy said. His voice was surprisingly soft for such a robust individual. "I'm John. John Watson."

Sherlock looked him up and down, then smirked. "Hello John Watson, tell me how is your brother?"

"My what?"

"Your brother. Off the booze, or still on?"

John stared at him, mouth slightly ajar. He clenched then unclenched his hands a couple of times, as though trying to decide whether or not to ball them into fists. He took a deep breath, then asked, "How could you possibly know-"

"Oh I know a lot of things." Sherlock cut him off, clearly enjoying a new audience to his freak show. "I know that your brother is an alcoholic, and I know that your parent's are divorced. I know that you have frequent sessions with a psychiatrist and that you're here because you've had problems with violence in the past."

"Wow." There was a pause, full of awkwardness and uncertainty. "So what are you here for, being a prick?"

Sherlock laughed, a genuine laugh, that he didn't bestow upon many people. 

"Actually, I'm a shoplifter." He replied, once he had regained his composure. "I have sticky fingers." He twiddled his fingers to make a point. He unzipped his suitcase and pulled out a small bird trinket. "I nicked this off the dean's desk while my parent's were doing paperwork." 

"No way! I've seen that before. I can't believe it." John took the bird from Sherlock and inspected it, as though checking to make sure it was real. The pair of them had childish grins on their faces in awe of the little bird trinket.

At that moment the door flung open. A skinny man with a goatee and a baseball cap entered the room and read off of a list. "William Holmes?"

"It's Sherlock."

"Oh, okay, Sherlock..." He scribbled something off of his paper and wrote something else in it's place, presumably Sherlock's name. "Hi, how are you?"

Sherlock drew his eyebrows together, and inspected the man. "Fine."

His name was Allen, and he'd been working here for far too long. He was trying to be cool and relatable, but failing miserably. He wanted to help the poor troubled kids, but had a drinking problem of his own. He had a cat, but no spouse or kids.

"Alrighty, Sherlock, just so you know, I am your dorm manager. My name is Allen." He pointed to a plastic name tag fastened to his "St. Matthew's" t-shirt. "One thing I do need to let you know is that due to the nature of your time with us, we will want to do weekly checks of your possessions, and some monthly tests, just to make sure you're clean. Your parent's signed documents saying this was all okay, but it's important that we i  
_communicate_." He emphasized communicate and made awkward hand gestures. "Also, you have weekly therapy sessions with Dr. Jarols, but you can check in anytime if you need to talk, or come see me if he's busy. Okay?" He waited for confirmation with his eyebrows raised. "Okay." He said when he got none. "Good luck, Sherlock!"

He slammed the door leaving Sherlock and John in brooding silence. 

Sherlock's face had gotten progressively more flushed as Allen had gone on and was now a frankly alarming shade. John didn't see though, because John wouldn't look at him. 

"You're a drug addict?" He said after a painfully long period of silence. He sounded hurt, and Sherlock feared that he was actually feeling sorry for the boy.

"And a compulsive liar, it would seem." 

John furrowed his eyebrows in disdain. After another uncomfortable period of silence, he too walked out of the door. 

Sherlock stood alone, and for once in his life, this was a bad thing. He found himself wishing that he _was _a petty thief. He took a deep breath and straightened himself out. What did it matter what John Watson thought of him? This boy was no different than the countless other classmates that Sherlock had alienated. He didn't need them, he didn't need his brother, he didn't need his parents, and he certainly didn't need John Watson.__

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed, leave a comment or a kudos and I'll keep going with it :)


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